He sat down at the table near the fireplace, and wrote in a firm hand a declaration which he destined for the police.
"No one must be accused of my death," he commenced; and he went on by asking that the hotel-keeper should be indemnified.
The hour by the clock was five minutes before eleven; he placed his pistols on the mantel.
"I will shoot myself at midnight," thought he. "I have yet an hour to live."
The count threw himself in an arm-chair and buried his face in his hands. Why did he not kill himself at once? Why impose on himself this hour of waiting, of anguish and torture? He could not have told. He began again to think over the events of his life, reflecting on the headlong rapidity of the occurrences which had brought him to that wretched room. How time had passed! It seemed but yesterday that he first began to borrow. It does little good, however, to a man who has fallen to the bottom of the abyss, to know the causes why he fell.
The large hand of the clock had passed the half hour after eleven.
He thought of the newspaper item which he had just read. Who furnished the information? Doubtless it was Jenny. She had come to her senses, tearfully hastened after him. When she failed to find him on the boulevard, she had probably gone to his house, then to his club, then to some of his friends. So that to-night, at this very moment, the world was discussing him.
"Have you heard the news?"
"Ah, yes, poor Tremorel! What a romance! A good fellow, only—"
He thought he heard this "only" greeted with laughter and innuendoes. Time passed on. The ringing vibration of the clock was at hand; the hour had come.